Aunt Jane Allen
State Street is lonely today. Aunt Jane Allen has driven her chariot to Heaven.
I remember how she hobbled along, a little woman, parched of skin, brown as the leather of a
satchel and with eyes that had scanned eighty years of life.
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her the basket of aprons she
went up and down State Street trying to sell?
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her the gentle worn Son that she
gave to each of the seed of Ethiopia?
I remember how she hobbled along, a little woman, parched of skin, brown as the leather of a
satchel and with eyes that had scanned eighty years of life.
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her the basket of aprons she
went up and down State Street trying to sell?
Have those who bore her dust to the last resting place buried with her the gentle worn Son that she
gave to each of the seed of Ethiopia?
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